


Make It Last, Love The Longing

by Not_A_Valid_Opinion



Series: What's Luck Got To Do With It [3]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Episode: s01e06 The House of the Lucky Gander!, Gen, Gladstone loves gardening, Gladstone spends this entire fic being like, Lena plays a fairly big part in this, and he finally starts to realize that in this fic in a way he hadn't before, and the season 2 finale, as usual I don't have beta readers thats just how I'll die, bc I can't help it it's so SOFT that he does, bc its what we deserve, bc thats all we have so far ha, fethry donald and scrooge are all important parts of G's life, guess I'll learn to talk about my issues before they push me to the breaking point again, its very here-there, just like he does in the comics, takes place spacily between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_A_Valid_Opinion/pseuds/Not_A_Valid_Opinion
Summary: “Everyone here is so much nicer than my Aunt. But I’m still... I’m still not...”She holds herself tight. Gladstone watches her rub her elbow roughly, unconsciously, and then clutch it in an uncomfortable grip. His own understanding creeps in, and the crispers taste uncomfortably sharp on his tongue, even more so as he swallows.“... happy,” he finishes for her, watching her struggle for the word, and wishes he wasn’t right. Her eyes are met with his but they’re eons apart. She can’t be much older than the triplets, but she looks like life has worn her down to the britches.She’s holding onto a railing, one Gladstone remembers his own grip on, but Gladstone remembers what it feels like to lose that grip.Gladstone is still finding his way. He learns he's not the only one.
Relationships: Donald Duck & Gladstone Gander, Elvira Coot & Gladstone Gander, Fethry Duck & Gladstone Gander, Gladstone Gander & Lena (Disney: Ducktales), Gladstone Gander & Scrooge McDuck, Gladstone Gander & The Kids, Gladstone Gander & The Triplets, Louie Duck & Gladstone Gander
Series: What's Luck Got To Do With It [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584100
Comments: 14
Kudos: 134





	Make It Last, Love The Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeey so this coronavirus huh? I had some time to finish this up since my entire country is on lockdown lmaooooo. This is probably the last part unless the new season (which comes out so soon!!!) ends up inspiring me. Whose ready to watch Gladstone be inable to climb up stairs??? I am.  
> Anyway, enjoy this lol.

_ “Oh, hey, twenty dollars!” he cheers, bending to the floor to fish for the bill. It’s a little crumpled so, with a well-earned flourish, he stretches it out and gets a better look at it in the process.  _

_ Larger hands, calloused and worn and oh so loving, ruffle their way through his locks. Gladstone knows he’ll have to fix his hair after this, but he doesn’t mind, and he almost misses the touch once it’s pulled away. “Lucky find,” Elvira, his grandmother and guardian, acknowledges. “What’s your plan for that one, then?”  _

_ He hums. His gaze drifts towards the stomach of his button-down. “I could eat?”  _

_ “We have food at home,” she dispels with an amused smirk that bats a challenge.  _

_ Gladstone puts a bit more thought into his answer, pursing his bill. “We could… eat?”  _

_ She raises an eyebrow. Gladstone crumples. “I’m hungry! I can’t help it!”  _

_ He rubs his elbow, the twenty still tucked neatly between his fingers. Elvira laughs, and it’s a mocking sound, though with no ill-intent. Elvira was a kind soul that often spoke only to make a point, and Gladstone had never felt more at home in the company of anybody than of her.  _

_ The sun shines overhead; it’s a beautiful day, hardly a cloud in sight. The bench they sit on is heated underneath, though both are garnered in coats that relieve the wood’s touch and offer a unique style to each. Elvira runs her thumb along the brim of her purple hat, touched up with gems Gladstone himself had found by pure luck, and one button he’d found as well. They don’t match up well, but Elvira isn’t the type to care. She turns to him, and the light of the sun shines behind her, her form protecting Gladstone’s smaller eyes from it’s brightness.  _

_ “You know, your Uncle Scrooge is coming out to visit the farm tomorrow. Why don’t you save that to go out and do something with your cousins? He always brings them along on weekends. Hortense and Quackmore love their date nights,” she suggests, chuckling as though thinking of something else.  _

_ A bird chirps somewhere in the trees, which surround the farm in expanse, save for the land of fields that allow Elvira to live as she does. He sighs, arms lax at his sides. “Donald’ll only think I’m bragging if I save up just for him. Which I love to do,” he adds, because it’s very much true, and he needn’t lie to Elvira; “he just makes it so easy. But I don’t want to become an easy target for doing so, either.”  _

_ Elvira smiles. “Little Goose, Donald is a funny one. Haven’t I told you?”  _

_ “No, I get that. That’s why it’s so fun to make fun of him,” he admits. Elvira laughs. She knows he’s only playing- he doesn’t have to explain himself to her. “But I don’t want him to hate me! What if he stops visiting?” _

_ “You could visit him.”  _

_ “I don’t know where he lives.”  _

_ The weather is perfect for their conversation. A cloud timely passes overhead, and the chill is befitting. Elvira rolls her eyes, nudges him with her elbow, and just like that the sun is returned. “Has that ever stopped you before?” she asks, her tone amused.  _

_ Gladstone blinks. No, perhaps it hasn’t. He could probably walk up to the first door he saw, and with his luck, it’ll be the Duck household, or even the McDuck household; he could see Donald, who was certainly some kind of a guy, and he could see Della, too- she saw something fun in him that Donald found infuriating.  _

_ Decision made, Gladstone hops off the bench. He begins to march off the patio, and from the bench he hears Elvira cry out, “be home by five!” to which he turns his torso around to shoot a thumbs up back at her, still marching ahead, whichever way he felt like going, knowing it would always lead to his family.  _

  
  


“Sooo… this place hasn’t changed one bit.” 

It’s all Gladstone can think to say, really, about McDuck Manor. Though it was more furnished, the air still smelled stale, like nobody had breathed in a single room for ages. The walls were still tidy though cracking in age, and the floors, along with the halls themselves, were all garnished much the same way. There was a certain liveliness to it all, however- something that reminded him of a home, of something built by hand and held up by heart. 

Gladstone used to only come to McDuck Manor when he felt like it. Though it was far from Elvira’s old farm, a convenient limo or taxi would offer him a cheap or often free lift wherever he wanted to go, and he’d always get there regardless of if he knew where it was or not. He found out that, up until they were old enough to move in, Donald and Della stayed at McDuck Manor with a butler that often rolled his eyes at everyone and Uncle Scrooge McDuck himself, whom never denied him the right to pop into the mansion when he announced he was coming over on the gate’s intercom, but often exuded exasperation at his presence. 

He did it maybe three or four times in total, once bringing Fethry along, whom Gladstone was certain had only seen the mansion that exact time (of which he ran off to the labs, and Gladstone was lucky enough to keep him from breaking a single thing he dropped or touched in the wrong spot, and keep him from getting kicked out by the team of scientists down there). 

It was a nice place, as a wholehearted understatement, though a bit too rustic for Gladstone’s accustomed refined tastes. It was always a place with a purpose. It always made sense.

Then Della disappeared, Fethry became too busy to properly contact, Donald refused to acknowledge Scrooge’s existence, and Gladstone became tired of his own. Things never really added up for another visit. 

Standing in it now- after everything with Toad Liu Hai leaving him exhausted from the casino draining his energy- he could still count how many times he’d been here on his hands, showing up every one of those unannounced, save for now. And though nothing has changed, clearly,  _ something  _ has if Gladstone was the one being offered inside. 

He thinks maybe that something is Scrooge. Hell, if he was suddenly getting along with Donald when the last Gladstone had heard of it they’d been completely at each other's throats, it seemed fair to assume. There was a new butler, though the old one was still around and had even opened the door for them.  _ That  _ had been a surprise. The new one got extraordinarily upset at him for calling her a ‘butler’, and so had her granddaughter, who Gladstone finally got around to making the connection to the girl that was with them at The House Of Fortune. 

He wonders what happened. When something changed between Scrooge and Donald to allow the proud do-it-all-himself duck to let his kids live in the mansion with him, even if he learns a few hours into his stay that Donald still slept in the houseboat. 

Donald was proud, so him keeping the boat was probably a way to zip away if something went wrong again. He still didn’t trust Scrooge completely, clearly, but he trusted him enough to let the kids be near him. 

(Was that what he was doing with Gladstone? Just keeping him at ropes end, close enough? Just a reach away?) 

He tries to keep himself away from thoughts like that. His therapist told him, if he ever felt like he was losing at being a family member, win first at being an individual.  _ You can’t do that by defining yourself as not good enough right off the bat,  _ he’d said.  _ You know you’re lucky. You know that’s not the problem. The problem is how you validate yourself through it, and when that doesn’t get across to your family, you suddenly feel invalid.  _

_ Like a parking ticket,  _ Gladstone had responded, nodding in thought, wondering if he actually had to worry about something like that when he never has to pay for parking because he’s lucky enough to avoid tickets and he never bothered learning to drive and as such doesn’t have a car. 

His therapist had jotted something in his notepad after that. Gladstone shivers at the memory. 

“Cold?” 

Gladstone blinks; he looks up. Donald is there. Of course he’s there, Gladstone is at his houseboat. He doesn’t recall heading there, just recalls walking. 

It’s late out. Though he’s still drained from the events at The House Of Fortune and the plane ride to the manor, he’s tried sleeping- it didn’t work out too well. 

(The not-butler had escorted him to his room for the night, which was incredibly green with yellow curtains and a lucky clover on the bed sheet. Weirdly specific, and he’d had to ask, “Now, when you say this is my room… you did mean for the  _ night, _ right?” 

The not-butler, Bentina, shook her head. “Mr. McDuck has a room saved for each family member. Not many of them get used.” 

Gladstone’s jaw had dropped, he couldn’t help it. There was just no  _ way  _ Scrooge had personalized rooms for them all and this was the first he was hearing of it. “Wow. This wasn’t here when I was a kid! Or was it? Maybe he just never wanted me to spend the night. Or, well, Ol’ Elvira wouldn’t’ve let me anyway. I always had a be-home-by-five policy, yano?” 

Bentina raised an eyebrow, swiftly signifying she both didn’t know and didn’t need to know. “... Right. Well, goodnight, Mr. Gander. There’s a housecoat your size in the drawers at the bed stand if you would like to change into something more comfortable. ” 

She left, closing the door behind her.)

Gladstone tried to sleep, after that. He’d slipped under the covers, excited to be free, happy to be in a room made for him by a man he’d never have expected it from. Scrooge always liked to hide his care away behind unopened doors, didn’t he? Maybe he should have stopped by more often, to try and spend some days with him, too. Sure, he never made his distaste for him invisible, but there was always that sigh of acceptance when he rang the front buzzer and shouted he was there into the microphone, to which Scrooge always opened the door for him, even if he didn’t look pleased by it. 

But he couldn’t sleep, even in the bed that was utterly  _ designed  _ for him, from the silk lining to the green patterning. Every time he closed his eyes, it was  _ wrong _ . The mansion’s stale air bustled with the smell of alcohol and cards, the sweat of winnings, the searing of unburnt skin behind an invisible chain. He opened and closed them as many times as it took for his heart to stop beating too quickly to be healthy and for him to spring up from the bed, pulling at his locks, the touch much too rough and panicked to be anything close to the gentle hair-ruffles Elvira used to give him.

For a while, he’d just paced. Then, the floor creaked, and he began to wonder if others could hear him pacing, even in the sheltered silence behind closed doors. A deep breath, and he’s back under the covers, and he’s back in the casino, and he’s back on the bridge, and he’s back in his own head and on his flippers and out the door in record time. As though he could leave it all behind, he walked- going nowhere, going somewhere, what did it matter? He was always lucky enough to land anywhere. Usually, it was somewhere good. 

As a kid, he went out on his own a lot. Just go, just let himself go. 

( _ Just let go,  _ he’d eventually made it towards. The thoughts never go away, though they’re quieted most days.)

Just go, wherever. He’d walk towards boba shops he never knew were there and randomly pick the best item on the menu. He’d walk towards McDuck Manor and spend the day bothering about in someone else's world. He’d walk towards a houseboat in a homepool in the dead of night because he’d been through a lot, and if that’s where his luck led him, then he was lucky to be there- as long as he thought it, too. 

( _ Define your own luck,  _ his therapist had suggested.) 

He shivers again, still outside Donald’s houseboat rather than in his designated room, where he should be sleeping everything that had happened off but just  _ can’t _ . Donald disappears back inside for a moment, and returns at the dock where Gladstone had found himself simply by walking to get away. He’s still leaning tiredly over the railing when Donald returns with two blankets, tossing one at him and wrapping the other around his own shoulders. His is blue, and Gladstone thanks him as he unfurls the messily-folded green one he’d been handed ungracefully and drapes it around himself and over the housecoat he’d tossed on before fleeing his room and something so utterly him.

It’s a nice night, but there’s a cool breeze to the air that’s actually helping to calm Gladstone’s chopped breaths. He’s not sure what happened, but the blanket feels like a hug he desperately needs but won’t bother asking for, knowing wholly that Donald wasn’t a hugger, and Gladstone himself wasn’t a get-hugged-er. Huggie? He almost wants to ask, but won't bother with that, either. 

Instead, he asks, “What are you doing up?” 

Donald shrugs. “Wanted something to eat.” 

He laughs a little, at that. “Well, don’t let me stop you. Wait. Were you going to raid Scrooge’s pantry?” 

His cousin flushes and looks away. “I actually have my own cupboard in his kitchen. Not enough room on the houseboat.” 

_ Fair enough, _ he thinks, and shuffles the blanket further onto him. His heart rate has slowed, but now he’s  _ really  _ cold. While he’s missed the feeling of a breeze, this was a bit much. He lets out an almost-visible breath. “Huh. So… You and the old geezer are getting along again, eh?” 

“Ehhh… when we can,” Donald groans, delivering a vague hand gesture with his words. 

The hemmed edge of the blanket twiddles around his fingers easily as he thinks of what to say. 

“So,” he starts. Being social with his family was always more of a yearn than a practice, wasn’t it? “When did all this start? The uh, living here.” 

Donald shuffles. He almost seems as though he doesn’t want to answer. Gladstone is about to tell him that he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, when he finally makes it to words.

“... I needed a babysitter.” 

“... Ah.” 

It’s so ironic, it’s nearly a punch in the gut. He could say a lot of things to that.  _ Good thing I left your life when I did, then, _ he could say, for starters, but they’d patched things up, hadn’t they? After he’d decided they’d never be able to fix anything between them, Donald had decided for them they would, could, and will. And they did. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. It was less cold. And if nothing related to Donald, it was something of a weight lessened, never gone, never quite forgotten. 

Things lingered. Gladstone had problems. He was trying to work through them, and he was doing okay, up until-

Well. Getting kidnapped by a frog who was just a little too good to him to be true wasn’t on his self-recovery plan. It wasn’t anywhere near it, yet it had its hands all over him, drowning him in the water under a bridge in a way-past project drives you backwards at one point.  _ Progress isn’t linear, _ his therapist would say.  _ Allow yourself to get worse before you get better and accept all the parts of you that stop that defining line from budding up.  _

Did that still apply to getting kidnapped by a luck-syphoning vampire frog? No? He didn’t think so. 

And he wants to forget about it, but the cold air around him reminds him and reminds him. And Donald is still waiting for an answer to a question he never asked, as though any response from Gladstone would punch them both, and perhaps here, the silence is worse. 

As quick as he can recover from the blow Donald struck first, he refuses to strike back. “The kids seem happy here.” 

Neither of them are looking at each other. Donald’s eyes are on the moon; Gladstone’s, the water below. 

“Ya,” he agrees, drawing the word into a note, a song or sorts, the kind sung by sad men behind lutes in period pieces. His words hum an unspoken tune. “They are. I… think I am, too. And you. I mean, you’ll be, if you… stay, a bit. There’s room.” 

Gladstone smiles. It’s not directed anywhere in particular, but his gaze is on Donald, anyway. “Until I get my house back.” 

“And you’ll leave after?” 

He shrugs. “I can visit. I wouldn’t wanna outstay my welcome.” 

Donald sighs. “You know, when you used to visit Scrooge when you were younger, I never really understood it. I only ever came along when Della showed up to keep her safe, and… well. Scrooge would be out of my life entirely if it wasn’t for Della. But you just came over when you felt like it, and you’d be there sometimes before we showed up, just bothering him and calling it waiting for us. But you liked bothering him, too, right?” 

“... Uncle Moneybags definitely had a stronger word for me showing up those handful of times than ‘bothering’, that's for sure.” 

They both laugh, then. It’s a song of a sort. 

“He wants you here. He wants me here. He wants the kids here, and the kids want to be here, and I tolerate being here, and you-” Donald shrugs, looks him over. “-you should be here. I don’t- I don’t want another bridge.” 

Gladstone hugs the blanket tight to him. Donald is searching him over, clearly waiting for a response. 

None comes. So, they stand there quietly together in the cold for a while, waiting for an answer to come from the stars if they won't make it by any other means. 

  
  


His house is fine to return to just two more days into his stay, but he doesn’t go. Nobody makes him, or asks him to. Scrooge makes a comment about yet another freeloader taking up space in his house, but it sounds almost like something Elvira would say, so much so that Gladstone feels warmer than if he’d said nothing at all. 

But he has to ask. 

“Did Donald ever…” he starts, and at Scrooge’s blank, patient stare, he’s not sure he wants an answer. He’s not sure what he’d do with one. Would it change anything? Would it make things better between them if the answer was yes, or if it was no? 

He doesn’t know which one it’d rather be. He won’t allow himself to wonder. With a sigh, he picks his words up and races through the bottom end of his question. “Did Donald ever tell you about the- the phone call?” 

If the answer is yes, Scrooge would have been smart enough to know what he meant. Instead, he frowns. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Laddie.” 

So, no, then. He can’t help but wonder why Donald hadn’t told him. He didn’t think he told anybody, really. Maybe he wanted to give him privacy or something. Gladstone was nothing if not a private person, and Donald knew that, so- maybe that was it. 

He straightens out. “Eh, don’t worry about it. I was just checkin’ something.” 

He still needs to see his therapist. He really, really wants to- he hasn’t seen the guy in almost eight months, but he’s lucky enough to get an appointment in just a few days later. The wait of those few days shouldn’t be as bad as it is, but behind closed doors, Gladstone feels as though he’s losing it- but, he can handle this. The ‘not saying anything to anyone about anything’. He could do it. He’s done it before, for longer. 

(Look where that-) 

He’s fine. It’s fine. So what if he spends the nights leading up to it dreaming about Toad Lui Hai shackling him in chains and stealing everything he hates and loves about himself, turning luck into a pillar of cash and lust and energy he no longer has. 

When he wakes, it’s just a dream, but it’s never over. He feels trapped. Even though he’s staying at the mansion, he hardly  _ stays  _ at the mansion. He’s out around town almost every day, breathing in the air and staying away from the water and looking at trinkets and watching people walk by. He’s not avoiding anyone by any means, but he does start avoiding sleep. He’ll get some meds to help once he sees the therapist, ones already on file from his psychiatrist from back when he was legally required to see one. He walks around the halls at night, when he wakes up this way, because every hall feels different and personally infused with some part of his family. 

It was nice, he couldn’t lie. It was peaceful, more so than the walls of his own home, which he tended to switch houses often enough and as it pleased him that none could truly be called that, anyway. He’d even stop to admire the little plant-garden his uncle had that he imagined that, if Scrooge himself wasn’t the one tending to the flowers, it was likely Bentina the not-butler. Though, he imagined it wasn’t- the husbandry required a rather careful touch, one he was sure Scrooge had despite his grip. Gladstone’s place had a lovely yard which led to a garden he’d set up himself- though it was work, it was kind work. Planting was enjoyable, and taking care of the little stems and petals was something he didn’t mind working at. Work, but comforting work. A learning process he’d been interested in taking up in his down-time, requiring Donald never to find out, lest he never hear the end of it. 

Of course, having been gone so long- they were likely all dead. Withered and dried up with nobody to take care of them in his unwitting absence. After all, he had no butlers, and certainly no not-butlers. It was just him, and his plants, and his chores that did themselves, an elevator that never stopped running in the centre, a pool to sooth his mind, and a sense of loneliness so great he was hardly there regardless of if it was his own. 

The plants in McDuck Manor were so lively and loved. Once the room is found, when he can’t sleep, he goes to see them. He sits, breathes in the air they provide and talks to them about things he plans to tell his therapist and things he’s thinking about anything and everything. Then, he’ll return to his room before anybody finds out he was there (he’d likely die from embarrassment if he’d fallen asleep on the gingerly placed bench facing them and been found in the morning in such a way, as he’d nearly done once or twice). It doesn’t always resolve into an easy sleep, but a peaceful before is enough to get him by, too.

One of these nights, he’s returning from the garden, having just stopped by the kitchen to grab a glass of milk from the fridge (Scrooge literally kept no alcohol in the house anywhere he could find some, and oh, how he’d looked) and was heading back to his room when he sees the blue one (oh, he’s gotten better at this-  _ Dewey! Stop calling him Dewdrop _ , signed Gladstone) peering into the crack of his open door and knocking awkwardly, having to hold the door still to do so. 

Gladstone takes a long sip of his milk as he stands behind him before he goes, “it’s a bit early to be out.” 

The kid jumps a mile high. “Uncle Gladstone!” 

“Shh! People are sleeping, Kid. Why are you stalking around the halls at night?” 

Well, stalking around the halls at night was what  _ Gladstone  _ was doing, he realizes after saying it. Dewey was standing at his door with clear intention. Still, the kid looks around abashedly, as though their roles were reversed, and shuffles his feet. “Uh, I was wondering if I could- could talk to you about something. Um. About Della. My… my mom.” 

Gladstone blinks. He steps easily past the kid and pushes the door to his room open, making his way inside and putting his milk glass down on the table. The kid stands at the door. 

“Well?” He asks, and Dewey startles before hopping inside and closing the door behind him. Gladstone cringes, and tries to ignore it, but Dewey seems to see him flinch. 

“Oh, do you… want me to leave it open?” he asks, hesitating by the door.

Gladstone doesn’t register his meaning. “What?” 

“The… the door,” Dewey explains, swinging it a little to emphasize. “Louie always makes us keep it open. He doesn’t like small spaces.” 

Gladstone had never been the type of person to sleep with the door open. It was just habit after growing up with Elvira, who would sometimes start vacuuming at four in the morning on a Saturday, and the closed door was the only semblance of silence he could get when he wanted to sleep in. His door was always closed, no matter where he was. But… 

He’s not sure, now. “Uhhhh,” he says eloquently, but Dewey just shrugs and walks inside properly, leaving the door open anyway. Maybe he was too distracted to notice whatever look of relief and confusion had spread over Gladstone’s face at the decision being both made for him and brought to his attention; his own face reads of determination as he sits down easily on Gladstone’s bed, leaving the goose only the choice of sitting next to him or standing the whole time.

After a moment, he flops down at his side on the bed. “Cool. So, what’s up, kid?” 

“Um… Uncle Gladstone, what can you tell me about her?” He asks, voice small but curious.

Gladstone wonders how much Donald told him and his brothers. It probably paled in comparison in terms of what he knew, which was already hardly anything at all. Saying so might be discouraging; lying would just be rude. So, he puffs out his cheeks. “Well…” he starts, thinking. “She was very adventurous. She loved what she did, everything she did. Found joy in such small things, that one. Got frustrated a lot, too, because she liked to have control at times where she couldn’t.” 

Dewey listens with wide eyes. Gladstone makes sure to keep his voice and posture as open as possible. “She had a lovely singing voice. Have you met your Uncle Fethry?” Dewey shakes his head no. “Well, he’s a bit younger than me and Donnie. He didn’t visit a lot, but he had trouble sleeping sometimes, and I remember her singing to him. It never failed to work.” 

The duckling nods to himself. Gladstone continues, because he misses Della, and he hadn’t given himself the option to think about her properly for a while. He decides now is as good a time as any. “She was always so surprising to me, because sometimes, she had luck like your other uncle. Things would explode in her face- sometimes literally- or she’d burn her feathers off or drop a wrench on her foot. I’d see her in casts more than Donald, if I’m being honest. But you know what? Della thought  _ she  _ was the luckiest duck in the world, which was something else to me.” 

“Really?” 

“Yerp,” he agrees, watching Dewey’s eyes shine. “She’d be so happy she got hurt because she’d know what not to do next time. And she was always so happy around the family. Hell, she was even glad to see  _ me  _ most the time I came around, which just went to show how much love Della had for the world if she could tolerate me where your Uncle Donald and Scrooge couldn’t,” he says with a shrug. He smiles, and ruffles his hair. “She was a good person, no doubt about it. She loved you boys so much.” 

“Do… do you know how she died?” 

Gladstone sighs. “What happened to Della is pretty touch-tight.” 

Dewey looks disappointed. He nudges him. “What’s got you thinkin’ about your mom all of a sudden?” 

“Uh… just, just curiosity. I guess. Thank you, Uncle Gladstone. Um, don’t tell Uncle Donald or Uncle Scrooge I was asking, okay? And… have you ever heard of the Spear of Selene?” 

Gladstone blinks. “The what?” 

“Ya, no worries. Just checking something. Um, I’m gonna go back to bed.” 

Gladstone almost wants to ask him to stay. He doesn’t get to talk to the kids one-on-one, much. He hardly knows anything about them. 

He says goodnight. Dewey leaves, this time keeping his door open just a crack without having to be asked. 

  
  


After the ‘Shadow War’, which he’d spent walking around town not really understanding what all the fuss was about, he decides to start looking for a new place to stay. Not his old house- something fresh. Not the Mansion- but maybe something close. It’s not like he tries very hard to search- some old lady hands him the keys to her trailer a day in, and he tries living out in that for a while, but it’s somewhat mundane and he hands it off the the first person who stares at it with goo-goo eyes that he sees. He slips back into McDuck Manor as he waits (as for if anybody noticed he was gone, or if they’re just choosing not to say anything, he won’t bother seeking an answer for), then decides to go out looking again- someone offers him a boat, a very nice one, but he’s lived on boats before and didn’t plan to do it again. Plus, that was sort of Donald’s thing, wasn’t it? If he really wanted a boat, one would show up again. So, he declines the offer, and then goes about relaxing and waiting. 

He sees his therapist in the meantime. He gets a lot of scolding for not doing more of a part for keeping in touch, but once the situation is explained, the scold is ‘hereby rescinded’ as he’d put it. He even tries looking for a place closer to his office, but though many nice opportunities arise, he finds his own sort of calamity in declining and deciding for himself. 

It’s an eventual pure luck that some kid with disgusting hands trades him a whole ass blimp for a lamp old ghost-butler sold him back at the mansion. 

And honestly, it was a cool fuckin’ blimp. Gladstone had talked to his therapist about the whole I-can’t-sleep-if-the-door-is-close-because-of-truama-I-guess thing, which officially labeled him as claustrophobic (yay, more fun words to strap to him; always fun, those), to which he was suggested  _ first  _ that they tackle the issues of what he was feeling about being trapped in The House of Fortune and  _ second,  _ if the first went well, exposure therapy to closed spaces to get him back on track. 

Well. A blimped worked as well as anything, right? And there were windows. And it had an autopilot setting, somehow. And it was free, as most things came to him were, save but for some weird item exchanged that he basically forgot about as soon as it happened. 

It was a cool fuckin’ blimp. 

It takes him overseas a few weeks into first getting it. It’s relaxing, and he really needed the break to himself- he blasts a Quaksha song and sips on a mimosa as the blimp soars over the water, but he looks up at the sky, at the beautiful blue dotted with clouds a little ways up. 

The airship carries him as he rests. It’s peaceful as ever, and lasts just as quick. 

Which is to say it doesn’t last forever. 

The blimp juts, slamming hard into something and careening backwards in recoil only to be caught still in the air again. Everything in the room, himself included, goes flying- he lands ungracefully on the side of the blimp, then back on the floor when it’s righted in position by some unseen force. 

Dazed, he pushes himself off the floor, brushing off his robe and looking around wildly. He doesn’t even get to take a step before there's a frantic knocking at the entrance port. 

“Hello!” cries a voice from behind the seal. “Anybody in there! I mean, I don’t see why there wouldn’t be someone in there! Why would a blimp be out here all on its own? That’s ridiculous! Ha! No, someone in there, that someone, at least one person I’m sure- are you alright? My Krill ran into you! She’s okay, don’t worry!” 

The voice is familiar, even more so as it goes on, and Gladstone stares dumbly at the door. 

“Fethry?”

A break in time. “Gladstone! Oh, you lucky goose-duck, you’ve found me!” 

He opens the hatch. It takes a moment with the air-seal, but soon enough, Fethry is leaping into a hug on him, and Gladstone comes crashing over even having come to expect the weight. He can’t help it- he laughs, completely shocked, and Fethry is shining a penlight into his eyes and checking for signs of concussion. 

“Fethry, I’m fine, I’m- aren’t you supposed to be in your ah, water… base? Thing?” 

“The Subterranean Explorer, yes! I’m actually looking to expand my horizons,” he explains excitedly, arm arching as though to draw it out. “Me and Mitzi were out swimming, but enjoying the sunlight, too, on a cluster formation of rocks! She went to stretch and bumped you right out of the sky!” 

He processes the fast-spoken sentence slowly, as well as the motion of Fethry enacting the entire scene with his body as he goes through the words. And the name Mitzi sounded vaguely familiar, something he’d said over the- 

Wait. 

“Mitzi… a three centimeter tall shrimp. Knocked me out of the sky?” 

“Oh, she’s much bigger than when I told you about her! She could lift a spaceship!” 

Gladstone gawks. Fethry flutters his hands in excitement, using the motion to direct his excitement, and it’s so familiar to see that all he can do is laugh. Then, he pulls his cousin into another, proper hug. He’s really not a hugger, and he’s certainly not a huggie- but here was his Cousin, dropped from the sky, and he can’t help the reaction. 

He smiles into the younger duck’s sweater. “Aw, Fethry, it’s good to see ya!” 

“You too! Nice blimp, by the way. Did you embroider it that way?” 

As he releases him, he thinks, trying to remember how it looked from the outside. Was it embroidered? “No, I got it as it is.” 

Fethry smiles brightly. “Blimps are fun. I never see them anymore! Oh, I have so much to tell you-” he starts, and does just that. 

Gladstone hangs around with Mitzi and Fethry for the rest of the day. He finds out all about what he’s been up to lately, and Gladstone takes care to give light versions of what he’d been up to in turn. Though, the topic of Mitzi and Fethry’s amusing attention span was more than enough to take up the time as they lazed around on the giant Krill’s head, the blimp tethered to her as she swims. 

It gets dark, and Gladstone offers to house Fethry in his blimp for the night. 

“Or you could try sleeping on a nice comfy wet rock formation with me while Mitzi goes off into the night, only to return in the morning like the faithful research companion she is?” 

“... Do that a lot lately?” 

“A few times, yes. I usually go back to the Subterranean lab for the night, if I’m close enough, but we’re closer to a nice pile of rocks then there, as it is.” 

“Huh. Well, why not?” He agrees. “Wet rocks can’t be worse than comfy beds.” 

“Oh they are, but they’re nice in their own way. Great for the back. And the stars are always so clear out here, just- let me show you!” Fethry extends a hand, and Gladstone takes it, allowing them to be steered off of the giant krill, who coos at the action. They scale down her and onto a neat formation Fethry had clearly already been steering them towards- or was it Mitzi doing the steering? He honestly didn’t know. Either way, Gladstone is just finishing his climb down as Fethry hops off and runs around a rather steep rock. He returns with a tarped bundle, and starts digging inside to pull out a pillow wrapped in a protector and a blanket much the same. A nightcap follows after. 

“I only have one of each, but we can share, or you can take them,” Fethry explains. 

“Sharing is fine,” Gladstone promises. Anything Fethry did often involved being a little damp and a little cold- at the worst he’d come away from this with the sniffles, but he was usually lucky enough to avoid even that. So, he sits himself down across from the duck currently laying things out so it feels almost like a nest, and once he’s done, they both crawl under the blanket and watch as Mitzi disappears into the water, presumably for the night. The nightcap Fethry wears is somehow fuzzier than his usual hat, which he clutches in his hands gently as he lays.

Fethry sighs, sounding perfectly content in his own little world, one he’d carved for himself by purely loving everything that was. “The stars are always very pretty, but they’ll really shine out here, you’ll love it.” 

Gladstone’s eyes search the sky. They’re not quite out yet, but in another hour or so, the sky would surely be dark enough for there to be no doubt to it. It was weird- not too long ago, he’d been looking up at them with Donald, and now he’ll be doing it with Fethry, too. All that was missing from that was Daisy, and, well… she was up with the stars as it was. Every time he looked at them, it was likely he was looking up with her, in that sense. 

“Ya,” he agrees. “I will.” 

Fethry smiles. “Oh, and the shine down from the moon will make the water glimmer. Not a full moon tonight, but halfs do the job in such a unique way. Each phase of the moon is reflected on the water so differently. It’s like it’s their choice to define how they want to define beautiful every night, and whatever they choose is… stunning.” 

The stars are out, though not quite, but Gladstone can see them, anyway. “That’s gorgeous, Cuz. You should write poetry.” 

“Hah! No, I’d probably set the paper on fire or get it wet before it could matter. Do you write poetry?” 

He hums. “Na, not poetic enough. I say things as I see them.” 

Fethry taps his chin, leaning up. “But there’s a poem in doing that. Being yourself is a work of art!” He proclaims the words to the sky, arms stretched up to the stars, eyes shut peacefully in his excitement. 

Gladstone can’t feel as excited as him. Instead, he sighs, the peace of the night washing over him. “Being yourself when yourself is me is like… like losing a battle everyone tells you you’re winning. And sure, it feels like winning most days,” he admits quietly. A smile sneaks onto his beak, but he’s not sure if he means it. As soon as he starts to wonder, it falls. “But not always, and not in… not in a way that matters.” His words falls short, and he closes his eyes against them for just a moment. They open once he feels Fethry’s eyes on him again, and clears his throat. “But, like, ya. You’re right. You’ve got a great outlook on life, it’s… admirable, really.” 

Fethry leans down to face him on the pillow, and Gladstone scootches back just so that they weren’t touching bills. Doe's eyes stare across from him. 

“Gladstone,” says the younger duck in a serious tone, “my dear second favourite cousin after Donald. If you want to talk about stuff, you know I’m a great listener. Or if not, we can just look up at the stars quietly. Or you can talk to the stars about your problems and pretend I’m not here. Or aim your voice at them while talking to me. Or-” 

“Fethry,” Gladstone cuts him off, knowing it could go on for a while if he didn’t. “Thanks. It’s fine. I’ve got a therapist for that kind of stuff. I saw him not too long ago. You don’t need to worry.” 

“I will, though, if there’s something to worry for. That’s not too much to ask from me.” 

The genuinity in the response startles a laugh out of Gladstone. Instead of responding, he flips over on the pillow, so he’s once again properly facing the sky and his back is flat against the cool of the rocks. 

He’s silent for a while. It’s truly a peaceful night out- he can see his blimp from the corner of his eye, strung up the little island at the center of only water. He wonders how many animals live in the water below, how many were the size of Mitzi, if any others were. 

He snickers. He can’t help it- the sound escapes his mouth as an easy reflex. “You know, Donald might be your favourite cousin, but I think you’re mine.” 

“Aw. Thanks, Cuz.” 

The stars are beautiful tonight, and the water reflects the half-moon in a truly unique way, and Gladstone talks over the gentle sound of ocean water lapping over the rocks where they lay. 

  
  


He keeps the blimp. It’s comforting to sail around in it, and he lets it take him wherever. Oftentimes he’ll tie it somewhere and spend the night wherever it ends up. Moving around, it helped. He liked seeing the world and travelling and smelling the flowers. He sees his therapist again, and travels some more- then, he finds his way back to McDuck Manor without even a thought as for heading there, but little resistance in tying up the blimp and ringing himself in on the intercom. 

“Gladstone here!” He yells into the button. 

“Ah, yes. Well, Mr. McDuck and your cousin Donad are out right now.” 

“Oh? Tell me, not-a-butler, who isn’t out right now, besides your lovely self?” 

A pause that could only belong to one good at controlling their temper. “The triplets are home. But they do have friends over and will likely pay you no mind. Be warned, I’m babysitting, and as such I will also be paying you no mind.” 

He smiles at her unwavering tone. “Ah, no bother! I came all this way. The least I can do is stay out of your way and eat some of those biscuits Scrooge likes to hide on the top shelf. I know you have some.” 

“... We do. Well, if all you came over for was a snack, you may as well come on inside.” 

He flips his hair as a substitute for tipping a hat, and the gate opens. From there, he makes his way inside, thanking the  _ actual  _ butler for opening the door for him and deciding first to stop off in the washroom. 

It’s odd, though. He doesn’t see any kids running around. Maybe they were up in their rooms? Eh, he’ll pee, eat, then go say hi. Maybe crash for the night, or wait up for Scrooge to get back for a quick hello. Head out. Go wherever once again, the simple life, but one he’s figuring out. So, he washes up, then crosses through the living room to head to the kitchen. 

Gladstone stops himself just in time to notice the banana peel on the floor, just quick enough to step to its side without falling from its slickness. He bends to pick it up and inspects it, wondering which of the kids left it behind somewhere along the day to sit blankly on the living room floor, and he chuckles when he realizes. 

“You kids shouldn’t go leaving peels around like this. Your Uncle Donald could have tripped.” 

For a moment, there’s nothing. No response. No acknowledgment that there was anybody on the couch facing away from him, though it only lasts for that moment. 

“Ew, don’t lick me!” Cries Dewey, popping his head over the couch and fanning a wet hand in disgust. 

Huey pops his head up next. “Then don’t cover my mouth like that! We’re sorry Uncle Gladstone, I tried to stop them!” 

Louie is next, slower than the first two, texting on his phone and hardly bothering a glance up. “Hey, don’t lump me in with him. I didn’t suggest it.” 

“You didn’t stop it, either,” says Webby, popping up last, and there’s no more room on the couch for anyone else, leaving Gladstone to assume that’s all there is. 

Somehow, another kid pops up, clearly taller than the rest and looking far more amused than the others around her. She leans on the couch cushion as she talks. “Ladies, ladies, we all know we  _ all  _ wanted to know. No point in pointing fingers.” 

Gladstone doesn’t know who this duckling is. He’s about to open his bill for a  _ know what _ ? but somehow another child’s head pops up, this time a hummingbird’s, seeming more inquisitive than her friends and just as unfamiliar as the taller girl. “Lena is correct. Scientific curiosity allegorically killed the cat.” 

“What cat?” Asks Huey, sounding personally offended. 

“Probably a cute one. Maybe a Siamese,” notes Webby with an excited gasp, and the hummingbird hums and writes something down on a notepad in her hands, while the tallest of them- Lena, apparently- rolls her eyes endearingly. Louie has flipped back around to continue texting, and Dewey’s eyes simply follow the motion.

They continue to bicker, and Gladstone watches them, debating just walking away to leave them at it. The banana peel feels oddly weighted in his hand, though so small as it was, and he sighs at it. The sound is enough to stop the overlapping arguments from the couch, and he makes his way over to them, leaning casually on its post so he can get a better view of them all while keeping a more balanced eye-level. “Are you trying to test if I’m lucky enough to avoid slipping on this,” he asks, waving the peel a little in his hand, “or if I’ll slip on it, and be lucky enough to avoid getting hurt?” 

They’re quiet for a moment. The triplets, even Louie from where his gaze has again picked up from his phone, looks slightly embarrassed. The girls, in contrast, look interested. 

The hummingbird taps her pen along the spine of her notepad. “Both,” she answers for them all. “We are well aware of your inherent ability of Luck. Lena here has magic powers, ones derived from the Shadow Realm, and we were curious to see if your Luck functions as some sort of magical ability that would be triggered by either entirely avoiding  _ or _ avoiding harm from the banana peel, which Webby so kindly provided for the sake of the experiment.” 

Webby shoots a thumbs up. 

Raising an eyebrow, Gladstone considers this. He purses his bill and he figures out his wording, and the kids all watch him like he’s about to spill life’s secrets. 

His bill opens and closes. He lands on an eventual, “as I said, Donald could have slipped on this. It’s not safe to leave banana peels laying around.” As he speaks, he hands it to Webby, who takes it as though he’s just returned a handkerchief he’d blown his bill in. He turns to walk away when Lena- a duckling he’s never even  _ met _ before- says to his back like an accusation; “why don’t you want us to know how your powers work?” 

He bristles, but is more surprised than angry. The feeling of a hand not there at his back makes him cold, and he turns back to them with nothing more than an eyebrow raised. “Because they’re not powers, Kid. Everyone has luck.” 

Webby speaks up, then. “But you’re Lucky! With like, a capital L!” 

The hummingbird adds, “that’s how we’re referring to it, anyway. It’s not coined or anything. But it can be if you let us conduct a proper study-“ 

“Nope, no,” he has to stop them, letting out a chuckle that borders somewhere between tense and awkward and trying to sound confident, like he was so used to sounding. “Listen, kids. Being lucky, no capital l, is not a... it’s not a power. You said you had… what,  _ Shadow stuff _ going on?” 

Lena narrows her eyes and nods. He waves a hand, focusing on that. “Were you born with it?” 

She hesitates, then shrugs. Then nods. 

“Okay, then it’s not a power. It’s just you. And I’m just me. And I,” he smiles, “don’t slip on banana peels. Unless, somehow, that’s the lucky thing to do, but yano, bygones and all that.” 

The kids blink up at him, and he smiles down at them before he turns towards the kitchen and saunters out of the room as easily as he’d turned into it. 

But the feeling of the hand on his shoulder lingers. 

  
  


Lena finds him in the kitchen, just as he’s knocking his hip against the counter so the exact bag of crispers he’d wanted and couldn’t reach from the cupboard comes tumbling effortlessly into his arms. He sees Lena leaning on the doorframe as he turns, and opens the bag as he stares at her. He raises an eyebrow in greeting, unsure of what to say, unsure whose kid this is. Their family line could get pretty confusing, after all. 

Lena watches as he pops the item of food into his mouth, and while he chews, says, “I can’t tell what your deal is.” 

Gladstone almost laughs. He takes a seat at the kitchen table, figuring this was going to be a conversation of sorts, based on the challenge to her tone. He gestures for her to join him, figuring if he didn’t she’d just continue to glare from the doorframe. After a moment, she steps to him and pulls out a chair across. She sits looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else, but it wasn’t like Gladstone invited her, so he just continues to eat and waits for her to say her part. 

It takes a few solid minutes of tense silence of her end and causal chewing on his before she finally starts in a place he’d never expected. “You don’t want your powers.” 

Gladstone rolls his eyes without pondering the statement too hard. Kids really do say the darndest things these days. So, he offers her a neat little scoff and a mouthful of wheat snacks. “They’re not powers.” 

She rolls her eyes right back at him. “Your  _ Luck, _ then.” 

“Lower case l.” 

“Fine, whatever, your  _ luck with a lower case l,”  _ her words are snapped and emphasized with air quotes before her hands drop back to the table and her tone returns to a deadpan. “What’s your issue with it?” 

He swallows a crisper. “Who said I had an issue with it?” 

“You did.” 

A moment for him to replay their conversation just minutes ago comes and goes, but offers him no answer. “I did?” 

“Basically,” she affirms, arms crossed. 

He laughs at that. “Kid, if you want the fine print of verbal conversation, you should be talking to Mr. McMoneybags, not me.” 

She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she looks away, and Gladstone frowns. Clearly, this was more of a vent than an intervention, so after a moment of consideration he tries another tactic. “You don’t want yours, huh?” 

“My...” 

“Shadow thing.” 

She doesn’t look at him. “I’m a Shadow. I’m sort of stuck with them.” 

He blinks, confused. She’s a Shadow? Like the one that had handed him a twenty and flew off, only to return a few hours later? That thing everyone was freaking out about while he was busy strolling around town? Huh. Her hair was very pink for a Shadow. 

He decides it might be better not to make that sort of an observation aloud, and instead ponders on what she might want from him. Clearly, she’s bitter about the whole being-a-Shadow thing and thinks she can find some solace or some refutation from him because she thinks he’s on the same boat or something. He’s on a boat, sure. Though he thinks maybe it’s more of a cruise ship, one he can’t exactly get off of, one he shouldn’t want to. 

Nobody ever understands why he wants to. 

He offers her some crispers to stall, and she shakes her head, so he pulls the bag back. With a hum, he mulls. “You know, most people don’t assume I  _ don’t  _ want to be lucky. They sort of think, hey, there’s a guy that gets everything he wants whenever he wants it. He must be happy. I’d kill for that,” his voice takes a tone similar to that of his Cousin Gus’, as he’s nearly quoting him exactly, among others. He drops the impression with a slight laugh at his own antics, because he’s funny, isn’t he? Well, Lena wouldn’t know that. She’s never heard Gus before, nor himself before today. Joke defeated by his own self-awareness, he clears his throat. “Or, yano, something like that. But it’s not as easy as that, and it’s certainly not as simple as that. There’s always more to it,” he thumbs at his forehead, “up here.” 

Lena frowns, looks at her fingers on her lap. Gladstone can’t see them, but he imagines himself twiddling his fingers if he were in her position. “Yeah,” she agrees, from the side of her beak. 

_ Yeah, _ Gladstone thinks.  _ That’s all I get? I don’t know where else to go from that. _

Thankfully, she speaks up again rather soon. “I’m... I’m not someone other people want to be, not like that.” 

“Ya?” he chews. “How come?” 

“Because... because I’m a Shadow. I’m a freak. I’m-“ 

“Who says you’re a freak?” 

Her hands clench. “My aunt.” 

Gladstone’s eyes soften. “Ah. Hearing stuff like that from family... hurts.” 

She narrows his eyes at him. “What would you know?” 

“Oh, come  _ on, _ Kid. You came to me because you’re looking for understanding, not sympathy, right?” 

“... how do you know that?” 

“Call it a lucky guess.” 

She scoffs. Then, rolls her eyes. Then, scoffs again, though this time it sounds more stifled, like it could have been something else entirely if she wasn’t careful. 

Gladstone offers the bag to her again, and she finally takes him up on the offer, sticking her hand in the bag and grabbing a whole handful. She eats them just as messily as he would, and he doesn’t bother to hold back his laughter like she had. 

She flushes under it. “Whatever. They’re good.” 

“Ya, I know. Love these things. They’re always where you can find Donald, you know. They’re his favourite.” 

She eyes him. “You’re eating his chips?” 

“I doubt he paid for them. And if he did, I’ll just buy them back for him. They’re like, what, twelve bucks?” 

Her beak drops. “You think a bag of chips is twelve bucks?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t go shopping much. Am I off?” 

Then, she laughs. Properly, though it’s somewhat snide, and that might just be properly for her. He feels as though he’d accomplished something, even if he’s not entirely sure what. 

Then, she sombers. “How do you... how do you deal with it? With. Like. Like, I’m surrounded by such nice people here.. Webby and Violet-”  _ oh, was that what the Hummingbird was named?  _ “-and the Dweeblets. And Scrooge. And Webby’s Granny. Launchpad-“ 

“Kid.” 

“Everyone here is so much nicer than my Aunt. But I’m still... I’m still not...” 

She holds herself tight. Gladstone watches her rub her elbow roughly, unconsciously, and then clutch it in an uncomfortable grip. His own understanding creeps in, and the crispers taste uncomfortably sharp on his tongue, even more so as he swallows. 

“... happy,” he finishes for her, watching her struggle for the word, and wishes he wasn’t right. Her eyes are met with his but they’re eons apart. She can’t be much older than the triplets, but she looks like life has worn her down to the britches. 

She’s holding onto a railing, one Gladstone remembers his own grip on, but Gladstone remembers what it feels like to lose that grip. To let go, because what else could one do? Hold on? It was so cold to touch. It was so dark out, nobody should have been able to see his grip loosen at all. The sky was dark longer than in that moment, well into a hospital room he still, to this day, doesn’t remember getting to- and it was dark before as he fumbled his way through it all, unwilling to open his eyes, having tried so hard already. Trying was tiring. His heart was crusted under the shadows of his own casting, his luck’s dealt card towering over his head like the illusions Toad Liu Hai had conjured. 

His grip is much tighter on the bag than it needs to be, and he relaxes it and ignores it and breathes out something heavy, far too heavy for his age the same. His words are weighted, too. “I wish I didn’t know what you mean, Kid. I wish  _ you _ didn’t. But listen- and let me be perfectly candid here, at your age, I would have totally ignored the advice I’m about to give you so I understand if you feel the same way but please, take it from me- talking helps. You have those friends you just listed, they’ll listen, and that comfort is immeasurable. And... and if they’re too, I don’t know, personal? If you can’t talk to them, talk to a professional.” 

“Like... like a-“ 

“A therapist. Ya.” 

She wrinkles her beak, but it’s clear she’s thinking. Leaning back into the chair, she takes a moment to debate with herself. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know what to say. It wouldn’t help.” 

“Well, you won’t know unless you try, right? And sure, it doesn’t help everybody. But it’s a good place to start.” 

“... Do you? Talk to a therapist, I mean.” 

He shoves more of the snack into his mouth for a moment, stalling. Only Donald and, very recently, Fethry knew he did. Only Donald was there when the legal order was given, and he’s not even sure if that meant he knew he still saw that therapist, and hadn't wanted to stop having one since being legally obligated to get one. 

But Lena doesn’t need doubts. She needs an answer and not a lie, something real, something softer and warmer to call a lifeline than a wet bridge, soaked in rain, soaked in finality. 

After a moment of deliberation, he answers, keeping his voice as slick as silk. It makes it easier to speak when it feels like words can just slide off your tongue before your reflexes can catch them. “I… do. And I hope you believe me when I say it… helps. I,” he rubs the back of his neck, chips discarded onto the table by this point, “started seeing one when I was at a real low point. If it were something you were open to trying  _ now,  _ as opposed to when it’s-”  _ almost too late-  _ “when you’re older, it’ll make growing into it easier. Probably. I mean, I only started seeing one when I was in my twenties.” 

She seems to consider this, scanning his eyes as though looking for any sense of ingenuity. He feels almost offended that she’d think he’s lying about something like this, but they don’t know each other at all. He doesn’t know what she’s gone through. She doesn’t know what he goes through. He’s an adult, she’s a child. He’s lucky. 

She wasn’t. 

Still, she nods. It’s to herself. It’s nothing much. 

It’s enough. 

He opens his bill to suggest she try the guy he sees- Dr. Double-FB was a joker, one that a kid as tense as she was might be able to open up to as though he were a friend. It worked with Gladstone. He used to specialize in child therapy before switching to accomodate for all ages, after all. He doesn’t get to suggest it before a voice from the doorframe, stricter in tone than he’s ever heard as a kid, surrounds the room first. 

“Lassie. Mind giving us a moment in here?” 

Lena’s eyes widen at Scrooge’s sudden appearance before they flit back to him, and Gladstone’s own eyes are wide at the table but he offers her a smile and she leaves with it fresh on her mind. 

But he doesn’t turn to Scrooge. Instead, the elder duck pulls up the chair across from him, the one Lena had just vacated, and Gladstone can’t help but feel he’s being insulted under his gaze. His feathers prickle, and he finally stares back up, ready to defend himself from whatever bullshit Scrooge felt was appropriate to bring up now. 

And… he can’t. Not after seeing how sad Scrooges eyes look, how confused. 

“Laddie,” is all he says, but it sounds like he’s begging. He’s never heard Scrooge sound like that before, except for at Della’s memorial service, when he’d given a short speech full of bubbling words loathed with an anger and sadness that could only have been directed towards himself. It had been enough to make Donald get up and leave before he’d even finished talking. Gladstone suddenly understands the urge to just get up and walk out, even if he still didn’t understand just what it had all been about. 

Carefully, he swallows, having not expected him to be back for a while yet, assuming he was out on one of his ‘expeditions’ or whatever with Donald like they’d used to do together as kids, and even a while after, until one moment it all came to a disastrous halt. Looking the duck over, it was clear he  _ had _ been- his brown vest for mining purposes was covered in dirt and tattered by the hem on the sleeve, and his signature tophat seemed to have a tear to it, one that could be easily sewed back together with enough patience. He’s never seen it worse for the wear, though, and wonders what monster-of-the-week he’d been fighting to cause such a scrimmage. “What can I do ya for, Uncle Moneybags?” 

His uncle gives him a considering look, one that seems to already understand something unspoken. He carried that look a lot, though it was usually based off of assumptions and as such, Gladstone hadn’t liked it one bit. Now, though… “All that ya said to Lena just then,” Scrooge starts gently, and Gladstone’s gut sinks in wondering how much  _ all that  _ he’d heard, exactly, “ya really meant it?” 

There’s a few things he could have picked out from that sentence, and he picks the easiest one, of which he’s picked his whole life. “You know, it’s rude to eavesdrop. Grandma Elvira always told me, ‘if you’re gonna be dropping eaves all over the floor, be mindful someone taller than you doesn’t do the same over your head’. Though, I think I’m taller than you.” 

There’s a long, agonizing pause. Gladstone is about to reach for the chips just to fill the air even though he’s long past filled his stomach. It’s only the movement in his eyes as Scrooge rubs his forehead as though he’s given him a headache that stops him. 

The same look he’d worn at the funeral takes over his expression as the motion is stilled. “I never realized,” the old duck laments. 

“Oh?” He bites back a reflexive reaction. “Realized what, then?” 

Scrooge’s eyes are serious. “That you were… hurting. Laddie, you talk all the time, but you say so little.” 

Gladstone looks away. Scrooge continues after another quick scan of his eyes; “Gladstone. I’m sorry I overheard what was ahhh, a  _ private  _ conversation. I don’t mean to put you in any kind of a position. I can forget what I heard, if that’s what you want. Though, I want you to know that McDuck Manor is always open to you. You’re family, Lad. That’s never not been the truth.” 

The earnesty to the words reminds him of both Donald and Fethry, offering him something new to hold onto. It’s hard to take it seriously from Scrooge, though; he hadn’t  _ asked  _ for one this time. Scrooge wasn’t supposed to be another name added to the list of people who realized they’d misjudged him for making it so easy to do so. It almost wasn’t fair to him that he had to know. 

But he could have just walked away and pretended he hadn’t heard anything at all. 

He’d stayed, instead. And there was a room built into his house with clothes his size and colors he likes and materials he loves. There was an intercom that always let him in, no matter what, and an aeroplane that offered him up, despite it being so easy to just take off and let Gladstone wander into whatever came next. 

“... Ya,” he understands. Smiles, though it’s tired. Happy, but tired. Loved, and loving, but tired all the same. “Thanks.” 

Scrooge tips his hat. He seems to leave, but hesitates. “Would you like me to boil up some tea? My next business meeting isn’t for another two hours. I give good advice, yano. Been around long enough to at least know how to do that.” 

“You know, it’s funny. Donald says he’s a great worrier, Fethry’s a great listener, and you’re a great advice-giver. It’s like a complete set. Wonder what I am.” 

“Ah, likely a great nuisance we all keep around, eh?” his uncle teases. “Come on. I know you’ve been wandering about my garden lately; you can help me tend to my chrysanthemums, then.” 

Gladstone balks. “Wh- hey, how’d you know that?” 

“Hah! I’m Scrooge McDuck, I know everything. And it’s clear someone has been talking to them more than just me, because they’re going in quite gorgeous. Now, tea?” 

He agrees, and the two of them struggle to make it (“Should we just call the not-butler down for it?” “Nay, It’s… like, it can’t be that hard,”) and, two rather bitter teas later, they’re up in the garden. 

And the chrysanthemums were sweet enough a sight for it to matter more than most. 

**Author's Note:**

> quick end notes:  
> \- Lena takes a limo with him down to her first appointment, of which he’d paid for, and planned to continue to do so for as long as she was interested in seeing somebody (he’d insist it doesn’t HAVE to be his, but Lena will grow to like the guy).  
> \- Gladstone will run into Fethry a total of two more times before, on that third time, they run into everyone else in the season two finale- including Della, which, hell ya right? Gladstone will probably have trouble reacting at first, and Fethry will hardly register it, but they’ll all be able to spend time together properly and Gladstone will finally be able to figure out what happened. It’ll be very sweet. I probably won’t write it tho lol.  
> \- Happiness is a process. I didn't want to end it on a cure-all note because that wouldn't be fair, because that's not how life works. Hopefully this is still a happy enough ending.  
> \- I probably won't write more for this series unless s3 really inspires me somehow, so for now this is the end!  
> \- I have a Boyd fic in the works tho :O plus I gotta go finish all my others fics. And uni might be cancelled but I still have homework, ha.  
> \- I didn't include the bit Frank started about Gladstone not knowing how to walk up stairs but trust me, I kept it in mind this entire series, not ONCE does he take a step upwards aside from a hill-type slope. It's too funny to NOT include to some degree. 
> 
> my tumblr and insta is @dasicality so come yell at me or smthhhhhhhhh bye


End file.
